


The World Whispers

by theunknownfate



Category: Jim Henson - Fandom, The Storyteller (TV)
Genre: Gen, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunknownfate/pseuds/theunknownfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly written for different prompts over at 31_days, these are pieces of random tales told put together in new shapes by the Storyteller.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>"When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller."</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The stories gave themselves to him. He could sit by the hearth and have the flames whisper stories to him. The fire was born from stars and lightning and from deep in the earth, and it told him of things it had seen, of monsters and magic, and wars fought for love. The burning wood sang softly of forests where princes were lost, white stags roamed, and unicorns kept the pools pure.

The smoke sighed to him, and took the shape of mermaids who wanted souls or twining roads walked by youngest sons. Firelight flickered over the stones of the hearth and they spoke in their own voices made of wavering shadows of castles under siege and places were summer never came.

The world was full of whispers and every voice had a story to tell. An essential part of being a good storyteller was being able to listen and hear the stories before passing them on to those who couldn’t.


	2. Ghosts of Winter

“None of your stories are about dogs,” the Storyteller’s Dog complained. “Princesses and lions and kings and ghosts and griffins, but no ordinary dogs.”

“There are no ordinary dogs,” the Storyteller chuckled. He was silent then, looking into the fire.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he asked softly after a long moment.

“Remember what?” the Dog asked. 

“The blizzard, the terrible snowstorm. We were heading through the mountain pass to the next town when Winter caught up and passed us by, and left us to our knees in blinding white cold.”

The Dog blinked and tilted its head. Its grizzled forehead wrinkled as it tried to remember, but the Storyteller went on.

“You were much younger then, my friend, but then so was I. Young enough to get too tired to walk in the snow, and small enough that I could fit you under my arm inside my coat. I carried you that way for what must’ve been hours. 

“We were lost, my friend, so very lost, and high enough in the cold stone hills that I was afraid of a misstep. The cliffs around our path were white with the bones of the poor men and creatures who had fallen to their deaths. White bones under the white snow, shrouded in the mist of white, winter wind. It was a blindness of white, and I knew that the path was narrow and fall far on each side. 

“I was feeling my way along, groping with my poor numb toes, reaching out for stone or branch with my one hand-”

“Why only one hand?” the Dog asked.

“I was holding you with the other. Under my coat, under my arm.” the Storyteller smiled down at it, but then sobered. “How the wind howled that night. The snow blew into shapes. I thought I saw wolves once, and a beautiful lady on horseback, and little children dancing as if it was springtime, but then the wind would blow the images into more sheets of snow. The ghosts of Winter were playing tricks on me, calling to me to join them, but I had a warm spot near enough to my heart that I remembered not to follow them.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Worn out as old leather, sleeping the sleep of those past all their strength, but curled like a hedgehog and just as warm. So I kept walking, step by careful step up the mountain, thinking, ‘There must be shelter somewhere’, praying that it would be soon. And then, my hands fell on something that wasn’t cold stone or ice. It was soft and my fingers sank into long warm fur.

“I squinted through the driving snow and saw a shadow of darkness in the white world. A dog, my friend, as black as midnight against the snow, tall enough that I could lean on it. Now…” He held up a finger, eyes wild and serious.

“I am a Storyteller and I know the tales of the roadside beasts, of the Shuck and the Padfoot, the Skriker, the Guytrash, and the Dandy Hounds. But I had my free hand on this creature and it felt as warm and alive as you did. It began to walk and I clung to it, thinking surely this is some mountain shepherd’s dog, some poor honest animal searching for lost lambs in the storm and instead finding you and me, and that it would lead us back to the fold.”

“And then, I saw it. A glow of light through the storm. A little cottage, just barely big enough for one window to show the golden light of a warm fire. The black dog had lead us to safety. I fell through the door and had just enough strength to crawl to the fireplace before I collapsed and knew nothing until the shrill silver sounds of birdsong pricked my ears the next morning. 

“The fire was out, and the room was cold, but the storm was over. Sunlight poured in through the one window. The front door was still open, and there in the doorway stood the black dog. It looked me in the eye until I got to my feet and then it turned away, stopping to look over its shoulder at me again. It had eyes that begged and pleaded and commanded. It wanted me to follow.

“You were still asleep, so I left you curled by the hearth to keep as warm as you could, and went out. It was the least I could do after it had rescued us. The wind was gone and the air as still as a mirror’s surface. The dog went like a black ghost over the snow, just slowly enough that I never lost sight of it. It lead me down a winding path through the rocks, and I, sliding more than walking, did my best to keep up.

“Finally, it stopped on the edge of a cliff and looked down. Panting and sweating, I was able to come up beside it and look down into the chasm. And what I saw froze me the way the storm hadn’t. There, at the bottom, broken on the rocks and under a blanket of snow, lay a shepherd. 

“I was in a panic and I slipped and slid and clambered like a madman down the side of those rocks, calling “I’m coming! I’m coming!“ knowing full well in my heart of hearts that the poor man was dead. If the fall hadn’t killed him, he could not’ve survived a night out in that storm. I knew it, but I couldn’t stop. When I finally got to him, sure enough, he was long cold, fallen to his death, just as I had feared we would the night before. 

“All I could think to do was to take him back to his home, make him a little grave, and carry the tale to whatever kin he might have in the next town. I brushed away the snow to move him and if I had had a weaker heart, my friend…” The Storyteller fell silent, shaking his head. The Dog waited for a moment. 

“Well?” it pressed. When the Storyteller raised his head again, his eyes shone with tears, but he smiled and reached to stroke the Dog’s head. 

“Curled on top of the poor man, doing every thing it had been able to keep him warm, was that black dog, as dead and frozen as its master. I looked up, and of course, the dog I had followed was gone. When I made my way back up the cliff, there was its footprints in the snow, stopping at the top and not leading anywhere else, as if the poor, brave creature had simply disappeared into thin air. 

“I carried the shepherd and his dog back to the house, and covered them both with stones. There were no flowers, but the sun sparkled on the snow like daisies made of diamonds. I said what words I could think of, and I thanked the dog for saving us as it couldn’t save its own master and went in to find you, just waking up. I fed you out of the hero dog’s bowl, and when I couldn’t bear to stay in the cold silence of the empty cottage any longer, we bundled up and left again.”

“Is that true?” the Dog asked, too much wonder in its gruff voice for the Storyteller to take offense.

“Of course. I haven’t been back that way, but I have a feeling that any lost as we were will meet a black guide and be led to a tiny cottage lit with firelight. And this time, perhaps the shepherd will be there to welcome his guests.”

“That’s creepy,” the Dog grunted, but it went and laid its head on the Storyteller’s knee and they sat and soaked up the firelight awhile together.


	3. roses can sprout in the concrete streets

“Anything can be beautiful given enough time,” The Storyteller said. “It only took a hundred years for the thorns to grow over the old castle, and then, another season for the roses to bloom. They were everywhere! Great blossoms like huge drops of blood on the thorns, silky spots among the sharpness, covering the walls, growing through the streets and the floors, and coming up through the drains.

“In long-cold fireplaces, red burst into life again, roses where flames had been. Stained glass windows were blocked by tangles of briars and blooms, no less ornate or bright or beautiful. The countryside for miles around was hazy with the summer-warmed scent of roses. But no one ventured close enough to pick them, because they believed the palace was cursed.”

“Cursed with roses?” The Dog raised its eyebrow tufts at him. “Or with a lack of gardeners?” 

“Everyone inside had never come out,” said the Storyteller, spreading his hands wide. “Those who had ventured inside never came out either. The brave soul who tied a rope around his waist before going in ended up pulled out by his friends after the rope had been still for too long. 

“He was sound asleep at the end of it, never to wake again while those friends lived. They took him home, and put him to bed. His wife remarried after a year, and they gave his slumbering body to the church for safekeeping. It was frightening, of course. It was unnatural, most certainly. And for years on end, the smell of roses was not so much enjoyed as feared.”

“Then what?”

“Then, the prince came. Before the tales of the curse, there were tales of the princess, imprisoned in her chambers, waiting for a kiss to set her ”

“And he didn’t fall asleep like the others?” The Dog snorted and turned back to the soup bone between its paws. “True love, right?”

“That would’ve been impossible!” the Storyteller declared. “This prince had been born nearly 70 years after the thorns started growing. He had never seen the princess, not even a picture, knew nothing about her except that a fairy tale claimed she existed at all. He was not a lovelorn royal poet following his heart into danger for the glories of love.”

“No kidding.” Some reluctant interest had come back to the Dog’s expression. “What kind of prince was he then?”

“A forgotten one. He had four older brother between himself and the throne, and two younger ones waiting for him, as well as a handful of sisters here and there. His own kingdom was full. His sisters had been betrothed to all the neighboring nobility, and he himself was getting no younger. His only hope of castle and queen of his own was to go out and find one.

“If there was a princess inside for him to marry, so much the better. If not, he would win the throne on his own. He didn’t care if she was beautiful or plain, sweet-voiced or silent, dark or pale. If she would have him, he would marry her. If she would give him a kingdom, he swore he would honor her as long as he lived.

“So, he gave the matter of the curse some thought. Everyone who passed through the gate fell into wakeless sleep, but the roses continued to bloom in season. Whatever affected the people inside had not affected the roses. So, rather than just walk in, he took off his armor except for the chain mail, wrapped his arms and hands as best he could, and began to climb the rose bushes.

“After a hundred years, the thorns were as long as stilettos and as sharp. They pierced his mail and padding, making their own blooms of red in his clothing as he climbed through the roses. The vines had engulfed the whole castle, so as the sun climbed higher, so did the prince. His blood fell on the sleeping bodies far below, and as the sun began to set, he reached the top of a tower.

The hundred years had taken its toll. The shingles had been worn away long ago. The room was full of dead leaves and debris. The furniture in the room was crumbling and weatherworn. What had once been tapestries and draperies were now faded threads. 

“Time had not stopped here, he thought. Perhaps when the ceiling had given away, the magic had escaped the room. There were spiderwebs everywhere, and when he looked closer, he saw the spiders themselves, going about their work. They weren’t asleep, and it gave him hope that his exhaustion was from the climb and that he would wake up. He had been sensible enough to bring a candle and flint, so he lit that with his pierced and bleeding hands and sat down to patch his wounds up as best he was able as night fell over the world.

“With that done, he looked around for a clear spot to sleep in. He curled up in some of the dead leaves and slept as soundly as the cursed until the chill of early dawn jabbed him like the thorns had. He awoke shivering, and since he had torn his cloak into strips to bind his hands and arms, he went looking through the room for something sturdy enough to wrap in. He brushed spider webs aside and pulled at the rotting old draperies. They came apart in his fingers and uncovered something that nearly froze his brave heart. 

“A woman lay under the detritus. Some poor soul asleep, he thought, forgotten in the tower, buried under decayed curtains and dry leaves. She hadn’t awoken when the spell was broken from her room, but her clothes had aged from what had once been finery to a threadbare mess, held together with dust and mold and a layer of spider webs. Her face was young under its own layer of dust and cobwebs, but the hair had turned as gray as steel and was full of bird and mouse nests.

“It was her jewelry that told him who she was. She had rings on every finger, gold around her neck, rubies in her ears, and tiara like starlight in her hair. Only a princess would’ve been decked in such treasures just to sleep. So, heart hammering with hope, he wiped away the webs and dust from her face, shooed away a persistent spider, and kissed her.

“The girl who had gone to sleep in the midst of celebration awoke to a ruin, to find the bloodied face of a stranger peering down at her. The princess who had been given every finery in the land had to wear a sweaty, blood-stained shirt when her ancient dress crumbled as she sat up. She was frightened, of course. Dismayed, most certainly. But this stranger was hurt and weary and kind to give up his own shirt for her.

“She heard his story, and though she didn’t believe it at first, had only to see the great rose bush covering her home and the gray in her own hair. She had wept then, for the years lost, and when the prince had gone to sleep in her musty old bed, she sat with him all the night until the sun rose.

“When he awoke, it was his turn to be startled. Where had been only silence there was now the hum of voices, some weeping, some shouting. He was alone, in a chamber, still a bit musty, but hung with fine things. His clothes had been cleaned and were set beside his bed. 

When the princess had awoken, so had everyone else. Miles away, in the old church, the young man who had tied the rope around himself awoke suddenly as well, badly frightening an elderly friar. 

He was taken to the throne room, which was noisy with the sound of chopping. The room was still thick with thorn bushes, but a way had been cleared to the throne. The princess sat there in a new gown that had survived the long years, the mice and birds brushed out of her gray hair.

“The roses,” she said. “Have turned white. All but the ones on the far tower where you climbed. They are red as your blood. You have suffered much to save us. Our kingdom is in disrepair and it will be a year or more before it is as it once was, but we will reward you however we can.”

“And the prince, scabbed and scarred from his climb, knelt.

“I came to seek the hand of the princess in this castle,” he said. 

“She is not what she once was,” the princess said. “Like her kingdom, she has aged and crumbled. Much needs putting right.”

“If you will have me,” he said. “I will help you.”

“And so the princess, being no fool, married the prince from another country, and though it was nearer to ten years before their kingdom was rebuilt, those who remembered said it was better than before. The roses still grew where they had been allowed to stay, white as snow in the summertime, except for the roses on the wall of the west tower, which stayed red long into the fall when the others had faded. 

“The princess who was now queen ordered those to stay in honor of her husband, and when her children were born it was the game of the young ones to try and climb the vines as their father had done, until a special gardener had to be hired to trim the points off the thorns. This was, of course, the young man who had awoken in the church, who having found all his family gone, had gone back to the castle, and as he trimmed he told the royal children the story of the roses, and in time, one of them traveled far enough to tell the tale to me.”

“And that’s why you’ve been nursing this little sticker bush for so long.” The Dog rolled its eyes to a clay pot with a ragged-looking briary plant in it.

“With no enchantment but stories to feed on, it has grown slowly,” the Storyteller admitted. He pulled the leaves back, careful not to jab himself. “But…” He motioned and the Dog peered over his shoulder to see three small buds nestled in the briars. “Given time….”


	4. don't trust a statistic you didn't fake yourself

The old Hero was blind, but he still managed to glare at the Storyteller. He had survived countless old skirmishes, and his last war had been the only one that anyone else in the room remembered. That was the one that had taken his remaining eye, and that had been over fifty years ago. He had taken up a seat of honor by the fire, across the hearth from the Storyteller. 

The trouble had begun over the story of the Soldier and Death. The Hero objected to the Storyteller’s description of death as a childlike creature with ancient eyes that stole quietly into rooms. The Storyteller’s tale was interrupted and the Hero’s had taken over, a bloody, hopeless story with no heroes. No one got through by cleverness or luck, or outside help. The Hero’s Death was a net, spread over every field. Occasionally, by chance, someone might slip through a hole, but even that was only a temporary reprieve. 

The Storyteller listened with everyone else, smiling and nodding as if he knew this story. Maybe he did. He was the only person in the room close to the Hero’s age, and his only rival for telling war stories. The Hero claimed his stories weren’t fairy tales, the Storyteller didn’t. Usually they were careful not to call each other liars, knowing that that was a dance for two, and that there wouldn‘t be any going back after those lines were drawn.

They had both been there. They had both fought, but in different places. And from their different souls came the different tales. They were the only ones who knew how true their own story was, and were naturally a little careful about how much of the other’s story was. This was the first time that unofficial truce had been broken, but the Storyteller was unruffled. He knew how to find the truth in stories, he was just better at disguising it than some.


	5. glorious eyes that smile and burn

The Storyteller’s Dog had found a cat by the hearth and barked furiously before hissing, “Go on! Get, you mangy mouse-eater!” between his teeth. The cat didn’t even look at him. Its ears cocked back, but it went on staring into the fire. The Dog looked at the Storyteller, outraged.

“That’s my spot!” he insisted. The Storyteller held up a warning finger. 

“Careful, my friend,” he said in a stage whisper. “Cats should be handled with caution. They used to be dragons and in their hearts, they remember that.”

“What?” the Dog was torn between anger and disbelief. It flopped on its haunches to glare at him. 

“In the earliest days of these lands, there were no cats,” the Storyteller said. “But cows a-plenty, and where there were cows in those days, there were dragons. A princess might’ve been a rare and sweet morsel, but there was something to be said for the splendor of quantity, and why bother fighting knights and wizards over a screaming girl, when a whole field of grazing beefsteak was left unattended just over the ridge?

“There was a dragon, golden as his hoard, golden as the sun, proud and strong and fiery. Every seven days, he came to the field and ate his fill of the cows. The villagers weren’t knights or wizards, but they were brave and sturdy folk, so they devised traps and tricks to drive the creature away or hopefully, even kill it. At first, it was entertainment for the dragon. They tend to have a cruel sense of humor about things they might eat, much like our guest.” The Storyteller nodded towards the cat, whose ears were still aimed back at them.

“Guest, pest,” the Dog muttered, showing his teeth, which was wasted since the cat still didn’t look. The Storyteller went on. 

“And like most cruel creatures, as soon as one of the traps actually cause him pain in return, the dragon flew into a terrible fury and stormed into town to take revenge. All the villagers fled into the old church, as it was made of stone and had deep basements, and while the dragon raged and burned their roofs and fences outside, they were safe.”

Here the Storyteller held up his hand and pointed to the beams in their own ceiling. Dark and dusty with age there were some blackened spots.

“Dragons,” he said, with another nod toward the cat. “Do NOT like being thwarted. Their pride burns as hot as their bellies, and there was no hope of this dragon being satisfied with just scorching their town and eating all their cows. He would’ve done that anyway, but these pitchfork-waving insects had dared to cross him. 

“Dragons, like cats, can be very patient. He waited outside the church like a tom outside a mouse hole, tail lashing, eyes burning, waiting for just one of the villagers to show themselves. He could hear them down there, hammering and talking in the deep halls below the church. For a month and a half, he waited, and finally he was too hungry to wait any more. 

“He took to the air, casting his shadow over the steeple, then dove through the largest stained glass window in a rainbow shower of sharp glass. He hadn’t wanted to do that before because he hadn’t known if he could get back out again, but with his temper gone, so was his caution. Like a great, golden snake, he wound his way through the church, setting tapestries and hymnals a-light as he went down stairs and corridors. 

“He followed the sound of the hammering down deep into the lower halls until he could smell them behind a door. They had nailed the door full of spikes to keep him back, but his fire melted them soft and he battered it down. There were screams as he burst into their hiding place and he drew in a deep breath to blast them to cinders, but then…”

The Storyteller’s voice dropped to a low, dramatic thrum. The cat tilted its head slightly, but still didn’t look. 

“Their latest trap clamped tight around his head! Like a gigantic mouse trap of iron, it closed around his jaws and neck, shutting in his fire and trapping him, head inside, body outside. With his head pinned, the villagers hurried to shackle his wings and legs and even his sharp, lashing tail. They bound him in chains until he couldn’t move enough to rattle, and they left him there.”

The Dog waited a moment and then asked, “For how long?”

“Time out of mind,” said the Storyteller somberly. “They locked all the doors behind them, went to rebuild their roofs and fences, and gave no thought to the creature below. Time went on. The village grew, then shrank. A larger town was built a mile or so closer to the river and everyone moved there, and eventually all that was left of the old village were a few stone rooms of the old church and the fields around them.

“A widow came there from the city. With her husband dead, they had lost their home in the city, so she brought her three children and her husband’s blind mother to the old church. You would never know it was a church anymore. The gravestones were all worn away, the steeple had collapsed, and the bell taken by thieves long ago, but when they went down some of the stairs, they had walls and a roof.

“That night when they lit up a fire, and curled up to sleep, the youngest child heard a whisper in the dark beyond the little room. 

“What is that?” a thin little voice called, weak as a candle on a windy night. “That is bright and warm and dancing?”

“It’s our fire,” the little one said. 

“Ohhhh,” said the voice. “I remember fire… Bring me a bit to see by.”

“And curious and not knowing any better, the child took a torch from the fire and stepped into the dark. And there, in the dark, he found a strange and sad creature. Wrapped in chains for hundreds of year, the dragon had shriveled and shrunk. Its wings had withered and fallen off. Its golden armor scales had dulled and crumbled away. It was no longer big enough to fly away with a cow. With no food or light or exercise, its fires had died and it was no longer even recognizable… except for its eyes….

“When what was left of the dragon saw the fire, its eyes grew bright again and it sighed with joy.

“Give me a little,” it begged. “To hold and taste again.”

“You’ll be burned!” warned the child. “It will hurt you, poor thing.”

“Not me,” said what had been the dragon. “Just a small bit…”

And the child, kind-hearted, held out the little torch to the creature, only to drop it in dismay when it screamed with pain. The fire HAD burned what had been a dragon and this came as a such a shock to the beast that it yowled and cried. The child tried to comfort it, but the noise brought his brother and sister and his mother running. 

“What is that?” his sister asked.

“Someone has chained the poor creature here and left it to starve,” said the mother, more right than she knew. “Unchain it and let it go. If it is a tame creature, it can sleep by the fire with us.”

“They were until midnight unchaining the once-dragon, and when all the shackles had fallen away, there was only a thin, small beast with a long tail and bright eyes. The sister, braver than her brother, but just as kind was first to touch it, to stroke down its back and dust away the last few scales clinging to its skin. Unfamiliar with kindness, the creature was weak and sick enough to be grateful. She scooped it into her arms and carried it up to their room with the fire, and they gave it some milk and bread left from their dinner. 

“It was not a dragon anymore, but it had kept its claws, fangs, and its burning eyes. As time went by, it grew fur to keep warm without its scales and fire. It sat in the blind grandmother’s lap and by their fire, and though it did grow strong and fierce again, it was only a terror to birds and mice ever after.

“They say,” said the Storyteller, reaching out to carefully stroke down the cat’s back. Its haunches raised slightly at the caress. “That you must keep your cat fed on milk and bread, because a cat that gets only blood and meat will begin to become a dragon again.”

“Well…” the Dog had forgotten to be peeved in the course of the tale, but was glaring at the cat again. “He’s not getting MY milk.” The cat turned then and opened its eyes wide. They were as hot and yellow as embers, and as its purr rumbled over the crackle of the fire, it flexed its claws gently against the warm stone and smiled.


	6. gown me in diamonds

It was a cold clear night and the Storyteller was perched in a window instead of his usual spot by the fire. The sky was blue behind the trees, fading to a deep velvet behind the stars, and an early frost was already gleaming in the grass. The Storyteller kept his eyes on the gleaming silver overhead though, stars highlighting his lined face.

"A gift from a shepherd," he said. Warm by the fire, his Dog looked up with a puzzled sound.

"They're just stars," he said. "Can't give them to anybody."

"There was a shepherd who managed it," the Storyteller said. "A shepherd in love with the willful daughter of a blacksmith. She was a beauty, bright eyes and dark hair and a voice as sweet as birdsong. She would sing as she baked and over the fields, the shepherd would smell the bread and hear the song, and long to have her for his wife.

"He would visit in the evening, bringing flowers from the fields, or fish from the streams, and sometimes they would sing together. He told her of the cottage he was building by the lake and that when it was finished, he would come ask her to marry him. She always laughed and told him she would answer when she saw it.

"But one autumn day when all the world was red and yellow, a rich man was passing by and stopped for the blacksmith to shoe his fine black horse and while he waited, he heard the daughter singing in the kitchen. He had a big manor house with servants aplenty, but his home was not a merry one, and he thought a pretty, singing wife might be the very thing he was without.

"So he gave the girl a necklace of pearls, the finest thing she had ever owned, and rode away, promising to be back tomorrow. She wore it and preened until she heard the shepherd coming home. Then she hid it away under her pillow.

"The shepherd had also brought her a gift. A tiny orphan lamb to be her pet and she fed it and laughed and tied a ribbon from her hair around its neck. Then the shepherd told her, 'I am building a roof on the house by the lake and when it is done, if it pleases you, I will ask you to marry me and it will be yours.'

"And the daughter smiled at him, and wished him luck, but she was still thinking of the necklace under pillow and what the rich man might ask tomorrow.

"The next day, the rich man returned with a gown of blue silk and had her wear it for him and sing. He left and she put the dress away. The shepherd came too, with another gift, a shawl of softest, whitest lambs wool. She sang for him and he ate some bread, and asked her who the man on the fine black horse had been. She told him that it had been a customer of her father's and he went on his way.

"First thing the next morning, the rich man was back, this time with a veil as fine as mist for her dark hair. He told her when he returned tomorrow, he would take her across the sea to his great manor house and make her his wife. All day she imagined it, the wife of a wealthy man from far away and she would be lady of his grand house and wear silks and pearls and want for nothing.

"She put the veil away when the shepherd came again, but this time he did not come in. He gave her a ring he had carved from white wood, something he said, to remember him by. He would have to work hard and long to have his house ready before winter, he said, and he would not be able to visit as he had, but if she would wear it and think of him, when he returned, he would bring her his mother's old ring and they could be married.

"Her heart was touched by this, and she took the ring and put it on, and he told her goodbye until his work was finished. And she thought that it might be good to be a shepherd's wife, to have a house of gray stone by the water and the soft lambs and the sweet flowers, and a strong, young husband to sing to.

"But the next day, when the rich man came, she was dressed in her necklace, her silk dress, her white shawl, her veil, her carved ring, and had her pet lamp on a cord. She would see his fine house, she told herself, and decide then. He loaded her up in a carriage lined with gold and furs and they began down the road to the sea.

"Three days it took to reach the sea where the rich man's boat was waiting for them. She was bored of riding and singing, but all the sailors saluted him, and the girl felt very grand on his arm as he led her aboard. Her lamb was not so impressed however, and pulled from her grip, leaping the ramp, back to shore. 

"Oh!" the girl cried. She would've jumped after to catch her pet, but the rich man told the crew to move on. She begged them to stop, saying she only needed a moment to run and bring her lamb back, but the man refused. She would have silken cats and dogs with jeweled collars, he promised, and tame gazelles and clever monkeys and bright birds from the other side of the earth. She would have no need of a dirty little farm animal and no wife of his was going to run and chase after anything.

"Then, he turned his back on her to order the crew, and the blacksmith's daughter, proud, beautiful, and as willful as a wild ram, turned her back on him and leapt over the side as easily as if it had been the rail fence at home.  
She lost her veil in the water, but climbed ashore and ran after the fleeing lamb. She almost had it until a dog barked and sent it running even faster. When she finally caught it, the rich man's ship was far out to sea. He hadn't waited.

"The lamb was still pulling in the direction of home, so she tossed her wet hair back and let it lead her. It took her through the town where a boy grabbed her necklace and broke it, scattering pearls all over the street. The people there scrabbled and fought over them and the girl ran after her lamb to get away from them all. She had no other jewels but her carved ring, but didn't dare lose that too.

"The lamb led her into the woods where the branches and brambles tore her blue silk dress to tatters. When night fell, the wind cut through the thin rags and only her soft woolen shawl kept her from freezing to the bone. Winter was coming, hard and fast on the heels of the red autumn. Her shepherd would be hard at work on his roof to make it warm and dry in his little stone house, and she clutched his three gifts tight to keep off the cold.

"Three days by carriage is many more days on foot and off the road and she was lost and hungry before long. She would have traded every pearl necklace in the world for a bite of bread or some good fried fish. Her feet ached from the walking and from the cold frost and she shivered in her rags, even in sunlight. Still the lamb lead her on until it romped over a hill where there were more sheep.

"Tending them, with his little stone house behind him was her shepherd. He stared at her, with her dress in rags and her hair a black tangle, and she ran to him. He took her inside, though the roof wasn't finished yet, and let her sit by his fire. He gave her his dinner and his old boots to wear and she told him everything; about the rich man, and his useless presents, and the long carriage ride and the longer walk back, and how even if the shepherd no longer wanted her for his wife, she had to tell him that his gifts had saved her.

"The shepherd was quiet then, and she wept to think she had lost him. He reached for hand and she thought he meant to take back the ring he had made her, but he took her arm and lead her out to a pool by the lake. 'I don't have pearls to give you he said, but I can dress you in diamonds.' And when she looked into the pool, she saw the stars reflected all over her ragged dress and wild hair, clear and bright as diamonds in the dark water. 

"He showed her his mother's old ring, a thin braid of copper, polished bright as gold. She wept again, this time for joy, and told him she would marry him as soon as she could brush her hair, whether the house was finished or not. He put the ring on her finger and she kissed him."

"And?" the Dog asked.

"They were married the next day," said the Storyteller. "She tended the sheep while he built the roof and by summer, she had someone new to sing to. They named the child Star and every night it was clear enough, they took her out to the pool to let the diamonds shine around her."

The Dog was silent at that and the Storyteller was finally cold enough to take his seat by the fire. He rubbed his hands and held them out to warm them. The Dog noticed for the first time a small wooden ring on his little finger.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, and the Storyteller smiled. 

"It was a gift," he said.


End file.
